


Words

by eLJay



Category: My Mad Fat Diary
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eLJay/pseuds/eLJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are words in Rae’s head that she has to get out.</p>
<p>TW: Depression, thoughts of self-harm and suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> This includes what some of Rae’s “random bad thoughts” might have been. If that kind of extreme and skewed self-criticism might bother you, please think twice about reading.

_You will never amount to anything._

The thing that makes the voice in my head so hard to ignore is that it’s _my_ voice. 

_You will never be anything more than what you are now: a blight, a mistake, a problem._

I try not to listen, of course.  I put on records and tapes and try to focus on the lyrics, the rhythm, and it usually works, if it’s loud enough.  But there are times when all the music in the world can’t drown it out.  Sometimes not even sweet voices and raging guitars can distract me from the words. 

_They call you fat cow and pig, but cows and pigs are useful.  They call you Jabba, but he was powerful and wealthy.  Apart from your size, all that you have in common with cows and pigs and Jabba is that your death would be a benefit to the world._

_You are not nothing; you are worse than nothing.  Even nothing, even a hole in the world would be better than you.  Nothing does not take up space.  Nothing does not drain its mother’s bank account, demanding endless quantities of food.  Nothing does not annoy the people around it, who try to pretend it doesn’t bother them.  You are not nothing.  You are in the way—an obstacle, a stumbling block, a brick wall.  You are a sucking black hole.  You are a white elephant, in size, coloring, and inconvenience._

The words make it into my journal sometimes.  If I can write them down, they’re not as loud, not pounding against the inside of my skull.  It’s when the words are trapped inside that they loop, repeating like a skipping record, driving me mad. 

_Do you really think anyone loves you?  Your own father left rather than put up with you.  Can you blame him?  He’s lucky to have got out when he had a chance.  Your mother wasn’t so lucky, and now she works all hours so she doesn’t have to be around you.  Your so-called best friend tries her best to avoid you.  She’s embarrassed by you, and wouldn’t you be, too, to be seen with someone so mental and unattractive?_

_Do you think anyone will ever love you?  Do you dare to think that you are worth a boy’s attention, you who are lumbering and clumsy and loud?  Do you really think that one day a boy will look at you with anything other than disgust or pity or condescension or mockery?  That one day someone will want to be with you, to touch you and hold you, to kiss you and love you?  Thick as you are, even you must know that that will never happen._

You’d do anything to make it stop.  It makes you act, makes you do something.  Anything.  Just to make the words stop whirling round your head you’d do the worst thing.

_All you will ever be is in the way.  All you will ever be is a failure.  All you will ever be is a disappointment, a waste of cells.  Those dreams you have—of leaving this town, this county; of making friends; of having lovers; of spending long hours listening to music, wrapped in the arms of a husband; of being more than your mum; of being_ happy _—will never come true.  Why should they?  What have you done to earn them?  Nothing.  Not a damn thing._

_All the pills in the world will never make you sane.  All the therapy will never make you normal.  All the dieting, puking, starving you can survive will never make you look good in a bikini.  All the coins in the jukebox, the pints, the chips, the records on turntables spinning hypnotically will never disguise the fact that you are not right.  That you do not deserve to live._

Writing them down gets them out.

_You are not clever enough._

Writing them down shuts them up.

_You are not pretty enough._

Writing them down turns them into just words.

_You are not thin enough._

Words have power, yeah.

_You are not strong enough._

But being the one writing them down gives you power over them.

_You are not good enough._

You can rip out pages.  You can erase.  You can cross out.  You can change the words.

_You are ~~not~~ clever enough._

_You are ~~not~~ pretty enough._

_You are ~~not~~ thin enough._

_You are ~~not~~ strong enough._

_You are ~~not~~ good enough._

_You are enough._


End file.
